Remember and be Sad

Better by far you should forget and smile, then you should remember and be sad . . .

Christina Rossetti 1830-1894

Part Eleven

The light was so bright it burned through his lids and he turned his head slightly on the pillow, but the glare remained unrelenting and forced him to open his eyes. A white bed in a white room, there was a strip light above him on the ceiling. He pushed up and then wished he hadn't when the movement sent knives through his head. The next time he was a lot more cautious, moving slowly and with infinite care.

A hospital, that was a given.

He grimaced slightly at the discovery. There would be pain, awful food and long hours of boredom, before he could make an escape. Neal frowned and looked down at his arm for a clue, but an IV sat in situ where his watch should be. He switched his glance across to the window. The blinds were drawn but it was clearly dark outside.

The time-line was wrong; it was all fucked-up. As far as he was concerned, it was morning. He'd had a meeting with his self-appointed conscience at their usual spot in Riverside Park. Peter… his brow puckered as he tried to remember but his foggy mind refused to cooperate. All his memories were confused and disjointed and shrouded in veils of grey.

There was something…

A sudden stab of pain and a feeling of complete desolation. He tried hard to hold onto the fragment before it twisted fluidly away. Too late, he was clutching at nothing. The thought had vanished in a tantalising second. He was left with a lingering frustration and a sense of growing unease.

He sighed, and reaching up warily, ran his fingertips along the line of sutures which wove a lengthy path across his scalp. Not good, this was so not good. He'd been hurt and perhaps pretty badly. Judging by the length and depth of the wound, this was more than just a bump on the head.

A head injury was the last thing he wanted. Especially one which robbed him of his memories. Head injuries made people ramble – made them say things they might later regret. His mouth dried at the sudden implication and his gut clenched in quick consternation. He could have spilled the beans inadvertedly. Had he let the cat out of the bag?

It might explain why they'd left him alone. Maybe Peter was too pissed off with him. There was no one sitting vigil at his bedside, and no Elizabeth to soothe his fevered brow.

Cat…

Neal groaned, there it was again, the merest wisp of a memory. He almost smiled at the incongruous picture of a leopard in the branches of a tree. He hadn't been on safari and he didn't like zoo's, so where the hell had the image come from? As far as he knew there were no escaped leopards currently resident in Riverside Park.

He had to know what had happened – finding out was his number one priority. Him and Moz, their plans could be in jeopardy if he'd made any kind of mistake. If it wasn't for the tubes and the monitors he would be planning a speedy exit. The only trouble was, talking of felines, he felt dizzy and weak as a cat. The slightest movement made the room lurch drunkenly so escaping was a definite no-no. Neal waited for the world to stop swaying and resigned himself to staying in bed.

Something was wrong.

He just knew it. The impression grew stronger and stronger. He had a sense of impending menace which simply refused to quit. He was honest enough to acknowledge it all revolved around Peter. If everything was hunky-dory then the man would be here at his side. He felt worse than a piece of road kill but he couldn't stop his mind from racing. The game was up and Peter had found out the truth. The whole charade and their relationship was over. Neal looked across to the door in dismay. It was why they had left him alone.

Could it be Peter had attacked him?

He dismissed the thought at once, a trifle guiltily. There was no doubt the man would be angry, but petty spite was alien to him. The law and nothing but the law, it was everything to Agent Vanilla, the single rule which kept the planets revolving and the principle which governed his life. It was something he usually scoffed at, but for once, he wasn't being derisive. Neal realised with a sudden clench of pain, that this time, it made him feel sad.

It must be nice to be so straightforward and live ones life with a certain sense of symmetry. No wavering boundary lines to step over or shades of grey to confuse him. To appreciate a painting or a fine work of art without a burning desire to take it home. Peter Burke was so sure of right and wrong, god, it must help him sleep well at night.

Easy, right?

Pretty easy for some folk, but not for him, the great Neal Caffrey.

Since when was he so damned conflicted? For some seconds, he lay there and wondered. Him and Moz, they had the world at their fingertips, billionaires for the rest of their lives. Billionaires with travel restrictions - there was a time when he'd thought it was worth it. Working with Peter was transitory – expedient – and quite simply an escape from his cell. Instead, he'd ended up way too involved with the people, the work and the city, making ties and forging relationships with the folks he now thought of as family.

Family, the word was a double-edged sword, and one which felt really uncomfortable. In his experience, the meaning was spurious and families didn't always play nice.

There were voices on the other side of the door. He lay back and figured out how to handle things. Playing possum seemed a much better prospect than facing the music just yet. With any luck he would find out what happened and come up with some kind of strategy. In-spite of everything, Peter might want to help him. When it cut to the chase, they were friends.

Closing his eyes, he evened out his breathing and tried to look pale and interesting. If his headache was anything to go by, it shouldn't prove all that hard. Just in time, he barely had a second to relax and let his head fall sideways on the pillow. The door opened with a sudden movement of air and then somebody entered the room.

Not Peter.

He knew the man's quiet tread.

Two men but definitely not Peter.

It was back again, the horrible sense of unease, flooding through him with a mighty vengeance. He could learn to cope if Peter was angry, but right now, he wanted him here. What if the cargo had been the last straw and Peter had reached the end of his tether? Maybe he was simply done with the lies and the feelings of hurt and betrayal?

Betrayal.

Where the hell had that come from?

For the first time he accepted its veracity. If he ran he was betraying Peter, flinging everything back in his face. Not just Peter, there was also Elizabeth. She had treated him with nothing but kindness. She had opened her heart and home to him when she could easily have pushed him aside. And she should have done – he wouldn't have blamed her. He was the slippery and artful Neal Caffrey. The man who'd robbed her of time with her husband for most of their married life.

Not just the Burkes, there was Peter's team, to say nothing of June and Sara. Since when had his life become such a mess… too many people were going to get hurt. It was easy to blame it on Mozzie for stealing the loot in the first place, but persuading him had been pretty easy, he'd been seduced by the scale of the prize. It was a miracle haul – a chance in a million - the type of heist dreams were made of. Pulling off such a scam was euphoric and old habits were hard to break.

Peter should know that – the man should realise. It had something to do with the leopard. There it was again, a splinter of memory, a sharp tug at the fringe of his mind. Yet again it was gone in an instant and he almost cried out in frustration. He had a strong sense the cat was laughing at him, mocking him with those all-seeing eyes.

"Any change?"

"Not so far," Reese Hughes was speaking and he sounded distinctly unhappy. "The doctors confirmed there's no bleed in his brain and talked about dissociative amnesia. Apparently there's some kind of discontinuity between his recollection of events before and after the shooting. He could wake with his memory completely intact up until his meeting with Peter - "

"Or only recall events after the fact and forget all about the cargo?"

"That seems to be about the size of it, or at least according to the doctors. In their opinion he couldn't deal with the trauma and simply blocked everything out."

"And physically?"

"Exhaustion and severe concussion, his brain was pretty badly bruised and shaken. They're pleased with the results of the CT scan, but he could be out a while yet."

Neal lay still and listened intently. The conversation was hardly reassuring. If he'd been wired up to a monitor his racing heart would have triggered the alarms. Reese Hughes was a familiar adversary but the other man was a stranger, his voice soft and imperceptibly accented with an underlying hint of authority. There was something, a certain quality about him, which made Neal instinctively wary. The man exuded strength and intelligence even though Neal could not see his face.

A shooting – someone had shot him – the thought was quite frankly terrifying. He was lying here virtually helpless with a bullet wound carved in his head.

Unexpectedly, the second man laughed. "So in effect, we're back where we started. We don't know for sure he has the cargo, but we're confident he knows where it is. There's something about your Mister Caffrey… shall we say a certain durability. In the right hands, he could be very dangerous. Did you know I offered him a job?"

"He isn't going anywhere, Zahavi, and he most certainly isn't my Mister Caffrey. The man's still a convicted felon and until he's finished serving his sentence, there's no question, he does his time here. As for the cargo - "

"Ah yes, the cargo. We're still convinced of its existence but this episode has been a success for us. Anton Schiller was a dangerous man and a very sharp thorn in our side. Odessa's east coast operation is in disarray and it will take them a great deal of time, if not years, to regroup to anything like their previous operation. There are some very nervous players in Washington right now trying hard to keep their heads beneath the radar."

"Writing off Schiller might prove premature," Hughes sounded pissed. "The man still has a measure of influence. It might suit those friends of his in Washington to pull some strings and get him out of this mess."

"Schiller's not the only one with influence. There's a rumour spreading around certain Jihadist groups that he has done a deal with Washington and betrayed Linzer's Middle Eastern contacts in a crude attempt to get off the hook. These groups think poorly of failure and can be even more intolerant of betrayal. They'll sink their fangs into the hand that feeds them and their poison has a very long reach."

Hughes' voice was heavy with irony. "And of course, Mossad has nothing to do with spreading these rumours?"

"Nothing can be traced back to us."

"What about Odessa, for all we know, they're still after the cargo. I'm glad this has been a success for you, but the whole thing has cost us dear."

"Schiller's love of art is well known – as was his obsession with the cargo. Perhaps it became too much for him and he wanted some of it for himself. Such a shame he was so easily duped. The whole thing was a wild goose chase. Peter Burke didn't lie to them. The loot was destroyed all along. Odessa does not stomach fools gladly and someone will have to pay for their discomfiture. Anton Schiller has become an embarrassment and one they would rather forget."

"Neat," Hughes was sarcastic. "So as far as they're concerned that's an end to it. Either they or the Jihadis assassinate Schiller and they all crawl back under their rocks."

"Unsavoury, I'm forced to agree with you, but it does ensure the safety of your operatives. Odessa has far more pressing concerns than to continue with something it now views as a wild goose chase."

"What about Mossad?" Hughes voice was soft. "Something tells me you still think it's out there."

Neal waited for the stranger's response. An awful lot hinged on his answer. To say the conversation was a revelation was something of a mild understatement. He was obviously in a world of trouble and things were about to get worse. The Israeli secret service was after him and that was hardly a good thing. More ominously, so was Odessa, a group of Nazis marching straight out of his nightmares. An organisation so shrouded in shadow it was hard to believe they might exist.

Odessa… the name sparked a memory and his starving brain fought to hold onto it, a strong feeling of guilt and resentment and Peter Burke's angry face. The sensation of sunlight warm on his skin and a ripple of leaves tracing patterns. A brief shift and then a flicker of danger as he saw the man under the trees.

"It's out there," Zahavi spoke again with some conviction. "And we'll be keeping a close eye on the market. It's worth knowing we're not the only ones, at least according to our agents in Moscow. The Russian mob has been putting out feelers ever since the first rumours began."

"And Caffrey?

Neal tensed and could swear he heard a smile edge back into Zahavi's voice. "I confess I rather like Mister Caffrey. The next few months should prove very interesting. I'm hoping my faith will not be misplaced. In the end, he will do the right thing."

"You sound just like Burke," Hughes replied and there was exasperation and something else rather harder to place in his voice. "He's been banging a similar drum ever since Caffrey became his CI."

"You don't share his optimism?"

"The two of you might share faith in Caffrey but I put my faith in Peter. The old saying kind of sticks in my mind – a leopard never changes his spots."

Neal almost leapt a foot off the bed – there it was again, the godamned leopard. Something was happening; his whole body was trembling as he eavesdropped on the two men's conversation. If they looked hard at him now the game would be up and they would see he was awake and alert. His head ached with a new ferocity and his face was covered in sweat.

The man by the trees – there was a man by the trees – and Peter… Peter was running. A scream of tyres and then a sickening thud as he watched Peter spin through the air.

He was up on his feet, heart hammering in fear, and terrified he wouldn't be fast enough. Feet pounding across the concrete and then a burst of white fire in his head…

They had shot him and mown down Peter.

With hindsight, he guessed they were Odessa. A group of Nazis in pursuit of the cargo had seized his friend and left him for dead. It was ironic how he'd fought for his memories, and in his arrogance assumed they could not hurt him, but now they burned bright with a vengeance and remembering caused him such pain. It was shocking in lucidity and precision, crystal-clear like an eidetic memory, every facet and nuance of the morning rushing back in a torrent of detail.

He recalled the warmth of the sun on his back and the lemon-tipped glint on the river, his feelings of guilt and resentment, but most of all, he remembered his rage. Anger at Moz, at the world, at himself… but above all, anger at Peter. The man had wormed his way into his psyche and laid his emotions bare.

Peter had really pissed him off by bringing up the U-boat's bloody history and accusing him of having no regard for the original owners of the treasure; whereas in truth, the cargo's provenance had occurred to him and sparked a deep sense of misgiving. People had died – he wasn't a monster – but it had all happened too many years ago. The last thing he needed was some self-righteous crap when he was trying to keep his head above water. Dealing with the present was hard enough - let alone trying to cope with the past.

He'd been balancing Peter and juggling Moz like some kind of circus performer. Trying to maintain a smile for the public and keep all his balls in the air. His nerves had been starting to fray with the strain and some kind of slip was inevitable. The performance would end in disaster and the balls tumble down at his feet.

And now Peter… dear god, there was Peter…

"Ah, Agent Burke - " Zahavi was speaking again and this time his voice sounded sombre. "I saw Elizabeth earlier, but there wasn't much she could tell me. My flight leaves for Washington in the morning and I was hoping he'd be out of danger."

Hughes sighed. "There's no change – he's critical but stable. You know they took him back to the OR last night to drain some more blood off his heart."

"It's admirable he made it as far as he did. It was a smart trick he used in the cellar."

"When I think what those bastards did to him - "

"It takes a brave man to stand up to them. To have the courage and strength to fight back. And talking of courage," Zahavi moved away from the window and walked across to the side of Neal's bed. "That leopard we were talking of earlier, don't be so sure he can't change his spots. He might surprise you and turn into a lion."

It was over. There was no more time for games and the charade had shattered around him. Neal's heart was nearly bursting with panic. Maybe Zahavi had known all along. He opened his eyes and looked directly at the man and the hawkish face seemed strangely familiar. He surmised they'd been working together in the void between the shooting and now.

Hughes was incensed, "how much did you hear?"

Neal swallowed hard and ignored him. He struggled up on the pile of pillows and turned to the Israeli instead.

"Please tell me what happened to Peter? Don't lie to me, I need to know the truth."

It was so sterile and white and cool in here, like a spaceship or some high-tech laboratory. She hated the banks of equipment and the overriding feeling of quiet. Just a feeling – there was noise all around her - the clicks and whirls of the breathing machinery. They merely served as a constant reminder that her husband still fought for his life.

Like he had down in that cellar.

His suffering had been made horribly clear to her. The images were cruel and relentless now more details had come to light. They had beaten and tortured him, broken his bones, and the thought of his misery haunted her. If they'd hurt him so thoroughly physically, then what the hell had they done to his mind?

A sudden rush of tears pricked her eyes. She might never find out the answer. Peter's life still hung in the balance. There was a soul-tearing chance he could die.

She'd been numb and utterly terrified last night when the machines had started flashing a warning. The doctors had rushed him to theatre to drain a build-up of blood from his heart. Cardiac something or other that sounded like tapanade. Or perhaps that was just the cook in her - the emergency had been nothing like olive paste. It was tamponade… she recalled the actual word, a result of all the damage to his ribs.

He'd come through again, like he had in the church, beating the odds with his customary doggedness. El sighed and lifted his casted hand to her lips. Never had she felt more selfish. It was the reason she needed to stay by his side – she knew he would keep fighting for her.

She was an agent's wife – she had thought about this – but it was nothing like she'd imagined. There was no sense of overriding dignity, just a horrible egotistical terror. It was Peter… her Peter who lay white and still with a plastic tube controlling his breathing. It was wrong and self-centred and shallow to make this all about her. Her needs, her wants, her life without him, a dark void yawned open in front of her. She was poised on the edge of a nightmare and if he left she might just topple in.

Her muscles were trembling slightly and she was glad of her cashmere sweater. She was chilled right through to her marrow but it had nothing to do with the room. The coldness ran deep inside her. It was pitiless and cruelly implacable. She'd been floating along in a fool's paradise, wilfully oblivious to this brand of pain.

She held his hand and studied him closely. Never had he seemed so defenceless. His eyelids were opaque and transparent, the long lashes curved against his cheeks. The evidence was shocking and brutal, each bruise an uncompromising statement. The shattered cheekbone misshapen and swollen as it merged with his poor broken nose. Her husband, so fine-featured and handsome, was completely battered and broken. His skin black and blue with contusions and scars as he lay pale and still on the bed.

The real damage was on the inside, of course, but it didn't make the beating less appalling. A large tear dripped off the end of her face and fell onto the white cotton sheet.

"Please, hon…"

The precious endearment seemed to catch in her throat and she really hoped he could hear her. She longed for a reaction, just a flicker, anything to help release some of her fear.

There was nothing – no response to her words or touch – no indication he could feel or perceive her presence in any way, shape or form. The machines kept pumping air into his lungs as though he was already dead.

Not dead… she froze at the treacherous thought which had crept in under the barrier. Something she could hardly acknowledge, a reality filled with darkness and pain.

He wouldn't leave her

He almost had.

There were no guarantees he would make it. The doctors looked at her gravely and he was still on the critical list.

"Oh, Peter."

It didn't matter how courageous or stubborn he was, the thought struck her like a revelation. It wasn't about courage or the will to live or a straight choice between life and death. It was unfair and unrealistic to beg him to hold on for her sake. Sometimes the mountain was too high to climb and there was basically no choice in the matter. Even Peter – as good and brave as he was – those qualities didn't make him immortal. She had to face up to the fact he might die and leave her to fend for herself.

For the first time since she'd known he was missing, El felt something give way inside her. All the fear and despair seemed to force its way out as a dam cracked and burst in her chest. She was strong – she'd always tried to stay strong – to be calm and composed and unruffled, but now the wrenching sobs threatened to choke her as she shook with a silent dread.

"El?"

She caught her breath hurriedly and looked slowly around at Neal. His voice was familiar but different. The nuances were slightly defensive again and she knew at once something had changed.

"You're back?"

The deeper meaning was patently clear and he didn't pretend to misunderstand her. He wondered what had passed between them when he was lost and trapped in the void. Neal regarded her a trifle uncertainly and a look of pain creased his forehead. His problems seemed small and inadequate compared to the man in the bed.

"Yeah, I'm back and I guess I remember. At least everything as far as the shooting and the point they took Peter away."

"You shouldn't be here," she took in his pale features and hospital gown. "Everyone's been worried about you."

He shook his head, and she thought she saw a quick flash of shame in his eyes. "They should save their concern for Peter. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

El tried to smile as the tears welled again, and this time she didn't try to stop them. Swallowing back a sob of sudden relief, she reached out and caught hold of his hand.

"I'm really glad you came."

TBC

Lisa Paris - 2012